


The Paradox of Simplicity

by ItsClydeBitches



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Character Study, Episode Related, Episode: s04e10 Our Man Bashir, Garak's perspective and motives are an utter mess to write, Gen, Pre-Slash, but damn if it's not fun to try, musings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 00:43:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18355097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsClydeBitches/pseuds/ItsClydeBitches
Summary: Garak was moments away from dying in a Ferengi holosuite, parodying his life's work and on a mission to save a member of every species that despised him. One might find that all depressing, if his doctor wasn't sogoodat making it fun.(Garak's POV for that particular scene in "Our Man Bashir"...)





	The Paradox of Simplicity

**Author's Note:**

> *cha-cha slides into this fandom 25 years late* Guess who has a new obsession? I've started penning a lighter story for these two, but I'm in the middle of Season Four and you just _know_ I had to stop and write out something for this episode. Please forgive the newbie's attempts to write one damn tough character.

  
_Odo would have made an excellent spy._

The thought comes unbidden to Garak as he runs from the heat of lava at his back and dodges the no longer holographic rocks that crash down around him. Not his usual sort of musings, perhaps, but a welcome distraction from the indignity of it all. Like the fact that yes, he may well _die_ in a Ferengi’s disreputable holosuite, attempting to save the lives of two humans, a trill, a klingon, and a bajoran, of all things. And oh, one mustn’t forget that this potential grave had been shaped into a parody of his own, once beloved profession. Garak had never cared much for the human concept of Karma, yet even he couldn’t deny that there was something horribly fitting about the Son of Tain meeting his end here, now, trapped within a crude fantasy of all he’d once been. The Doctor’s Shakespeare would have had something to say about _that_.

But he digressed. Odo.

They were similar in ways that Garak preferred not to think too deeply on, thank you very much—and then he would force himself to draw such comparisons anyway, because what was the point of a lifelong punishment if one didn’t engage in a bit of self-flagellation now and again? Both exiled from their home-world. Both preferring order in what remained of their lives. Both drawn to their people despite the disparities that now existed between them. Garak used to believe that he’d only developed a…what was it? Ah yes. A rose-tinted perspective of Cardassia thanks to his exile, a dream that the reality had no chance of living up to, but was still glorious nonetheless. It had taken more than one unpleasant experience to realize that his home was so much less like the repetitive epics as he’d once thought in his youth. Now, too reminiscent of Dukat’s smile. Room for improvement then, much like what Odo would no doubt like to bring to the Changelings.

Garak would have thought them too similar, if not for Odo’s frankly ridiculous obsession with justice. Here was not a man with betrayal in his heart. Too loyal by far. No, no—no chance at all that he could ever pull it off, despite his otherwise brilliant qualifications.

Of course, all of that was before _Garak_ had shamelessly begged Tain to come with him and _Odo_ had struck a well-placed blow to the back of his neck. An Order member holding out false hope and an adopted bajoran knowing when to cut his losses? Dear me. Had anyone written it down Garak would have laughed at the absurdity of it all. Do revise with characterization in mind! Still, absurdity had its uses and that little stunt had earned the Constable the occasional breakfast with him as the prize.

It made Garak question exactly what Julian had done to earn so many, _many_ lunches of his own.

“That’s why I’ve managed to stay alive when most of my colleagues are dead. Because I know when to walk away and that time is now. Now! And you’d know that, Doctor, if you were a real intelligence agent.”

Thanks to a bit of creativity in those reports there was no chance that the good Doctor would ever know of this particular hypocrisy. Let him think that his plain, simple Garak had never once faltered in knowing when to quit. The anger helped to sell it, easy to drum up when his life was still on the line—pitiful though it was!—and the mountain walls seemed to be growing narrower with every step. Garak tried not to touch those walls and pushed himself into Julian’s space instead, now nurturing the manufactured frustration because why not? Whyever not? Could his Doctor not see the hand stitching along the lapel of his suit and come to the frankly obvious conclusion that he’d spent over a week on this particular, nonsensical garment? Hadn’t he realized the moment Garak arrived that knowing he’d spent every free hour here required a rather intimate knowledge of his comings and goings, the sort of surveillance that might actually make one pause and think? Even if he never knew what had happened between the Order and the Tal Shiar, the brilliant Julian Bashir should have realize that if Garak truly wished to leave this place and save _both_ their lives at the expense of all the others… he would have. After all, a human’s skull was quite the fragile thing and there were plenty of rocks about. Nothing a dermal regenerator couldn’t fix. Odo had realized as much.

But then, Julian was nothing like Odo. Nothing like him then either.

Perhaps another approach.

“It’s time to face reality, Doctor. You’re a man who dreams of being a hero because you know deep down that you’re not. I’m no hero either, but I do know how to make a choice. And I’m choosing to save myself.”

Lies were only as good as their foundation and, sad as it was to admit, the only reliable foundation stemmed from the truth. Or something like the truth, anyhow. It had taken the reveal of his first name for Julian to start learning this particular lesson. How lies—good lies—didn’t have a black and white, yes or no, did or did not happen existence. They were like threads in a tapestry. Pull one and a small section would undoubtedly come apart… but not the whole thing. There was too much else woven up around it and that, my dear, was precisely the point.

Three sentences. One lie, one truth, and something that Garak hadn’t quite settled on yet. He’d made the lie as transparent as possible to see if Julian would contest it, unravel that small section and see what the new picture looked like, but he was too focused on Garak’s threats. Disappointing. Or perhaps he was simply too humble. Ah! And what amusing expressions they all would pull if Garak were to say that aloud. Julian Bashir? _Humble?_ Hardly.

Truth was often a matter of perspective though and heroes rarely called themselves such.

His dear Doctor really was terrible though, wasn’t he? It went far beyond romantic theatrics and the absurdity of knocking a man out with one well-placed cork. He had no talent for picking up on the details of a character, reading a man for what he truly was with just a glance. Oh, young Julian may have touted on about how he’d always known Garak was a spy, but he was quite incapable of moving past that and realizing, of course, that Garak had _wanted_ him to know. Everything he saw was filtered through a naive, Federation lens. Crafting a disgustingly optimistic world despite all the evidence to the contrary. How else to explain that little trip to the Arawath Colony? A doctor helped his patient despite all that he was, providing every cure and comfort offered by modern medicine. It was, as Garak had just pointed out, pure professionalism. Only a fool went farther and Julian was, above all else, foolish.

The Garak of the replimat and tailor’s shop relished in the Doctor’s distorted view of him. It had granted him his life, a companion, touches so rare his skin burned for hours afterwards, even through his top and two thermal layers. It was far more than he deserved and most days Garak was just greedy enough to _snatch_ it.

Today was not most days. He didn’t find himself in the mood to be seen for anything other than what he was.

_Lying to yourself, Elim?_ Always. Killing two humans, a trill, klingon, and bajoran came down to just two words: “Computer, exit.” So why re-start his sentence after the first interruption? Why was his mind conjuring the most round-about ways to phrase this, drawing out each syllable until it was thick as yamok sauce? Because he already knew Julian’s answer. There would come another interruption. More dithering hidden behind that ridiculous bravado. The only possible choice for his dear Doctor was no choice at all. Heroes couldn’t let five people die. They couldn’t shoot their friends either. Not when those friends were plain, simple, and oh so secretly good—even when no one else could see it.

So Garak was waiting again for the sound of his Doctor’s voice. Not a _gunshot_.

Oh.

A searing line of pain along his neck. The crack of metal ploughing through stone. Garak crashed his shoulder into the wall and instinctively dipped fingertips into his own blood. His first thought was not, _He shot me_ but, _He ruined my suit!_

He was getting sloppy in his old age. The rest of it took another five seconds and the touch of Julian’s hand to solidify the truth in his mind.

“…That was awfully close. What if you’d killed me?”

“What makes you think I wasn’t trying?”

He couldn’t lie. Not well enough to fool Garak, anyway. And suddenly there was Odo in his thoughts again, a level below Garak on the promenade, speaking to Major Kira about the Dominion threat and the training drills that had run Federation officers ragged. He’d only stopped to listen because they were fitting “Doctor Bashir” into their mouths every other word, one expressing disapproval and the other frustrated amusement.

_His response times are horrendous and he can only hit what’s directly in front of him. I’d almost believe he’s trying to miss!_

_C’mon, Constable. It’s his job to heal people, not shoot them. Cut the med personal some slack._

Not talented enough to execute a flesh wound then. _You really were trying to kill me._

And yes, there were no doubt a hundred factors that had influenced the Doctor’s decision. Like the fact that Cardassian skin was notoriously tough, keeping any bullet lodged there from going deeper than it would in another, less fortunate humanoid. Cardassians didn’t have the same major arteries running through their necks as humans did, making a hit there just slightly less dangerous. To say nothing of the fact that he was first and foremost a doctor. Perhaps Julian had plans to staunch bleeding with his jacket, holding out just long enough until this nonsense ended and he could beam them both to the infirmary.

None of which truly lessened the impact of, _He shot me._

It was invigorating. Garak heaved in a massive breath—easy to explain away as pain—when in fact it was due to the sudden warmth that had bloomed in the center of his chest, radiating out across every scale and patch of skin. This was the proof then. His doctor _could_ see him, knew exactly the kind of man Garak was, and proved unwilling to compromise his own morals in order to cater to some manufactured fantasy. This was certainly acceptance of some sort. Paradoxical and absurd, but acceptance nonetheless. _I know exactly what you're capable of and would have killed you for it, if necessary. Now, how about lunch?_

Yes. How fun.

Not five minutes later the good doctor had saved the day by destroying the world. He’d kill one friend to save another. Abandon his Hippocratic Oath in order to uphold it. Now Garak remembered exactly how he’d earned his attentions.

“I think it’s safe to assume that Julian Bashir, secret agent, will return.”

Garak merely hummed, a sound that could be interpreted as agreement or skepticism. Perhaps a bit of both all at once. The smile slipped out though, for the simple reason that it remained amusing. His doctor was no intelligence agent. Garak wasn’t entirely sure what he was.

Which was exactly as he preferred it. 


End file.
